


In Time

by ErinPtah



Category: Fake News RPF
Genre: Friendship/Love, Gen, Overdosing, Suicide, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-12
Updated: 2009-02-12
Packaged: 2018-11-19 14:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11315655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/pseuds/ErinPtah
Summary: The other of my rare real!Stephen fics.In an effort to save his life, Jon keeps pulling a Run Lola Run on Stephen's personal history.





	In Time

_This only is denied to God: the power to undo the past._  
Aristotle

 

Sure, there are some crazy people in the world. Like the guy who sent threatening letters filled with unidentified white powder to the studio and Jon's home. But it's rare that they ever get that far.

So when Stephen starts getting death threats, he mostly just laughs it off, telling Jon not to be so worried.

And then he gets run down on the street in broad daylight.

Paralyzed with grief, Jon drifts through the fog of funeral arrangements and hastily cut-together tribute specials, until it gets to be too much.

Then he resets time to 1999.

 

*

 

"Why can't you ever be nicer to Colbert?" demands Ben one day. "Sure, he's more talented than you are, but that never stopped you before. There's no reason you two shouldn't get along."

"I'm sure he's a great guy," insists Jon. "Something about him rubs me the wrong way, that's all."

He doesn't challenge Stephen to come up with political beliefs. He doesn't allow them to develop a rapport. He doesn't really talk to Stephen at all.

When Stephen leaves to do _Strangers With Candy_ , he doesn't come back.

Hollywood is delighted to suck him in and spit out dozens of hit films. Jon stalks the tabloids for stories about him, even knowing that none of them can be true. After all, the Stephen he knows wouldn't have affairs with his co-stars, much less need secret trips to rehab clinics.

When a respectable newspaper breaks the divorce, Jon is forcibly reminded that this is _not_ the Stephen he knows.

And when the same newspaper reports that Stephen has died of an overdose, Jon puts it numbly aside and resets time again.

 

*

 

It takes a little more effort this time, but by following the names of people who mattered the last two times around, he makes the necessary connections in Chicago. (Money isn't an issue. He knows what stocks to buy.)

Stephen wants to do serious theater? Stephen will do serious theater.

Jon drops by Second City, where he watches Paul and Amy and Steve and laughs harder than he has for a long time, before going to see _Hamlet_. It isn't even over before fans are beating down the door of Stephen's dressing room. Jon patiently waits his turn.

He's the last one to come in, to find the lead actor dark and brooding, gratified by the adulation but somehow not _happy_.

They talk a little. Jon offers vague praise; Stephen accepts. He's cordial enough, but there's something tightly wound about him: sort of like the character he played a lifetime and a half ago, only without the glimmer of amusement in his eye at the absurdity of his overwhelming anger.

When he leaves, Jon tells himself that Stephen will grow out of it on his own.

This time, he hires someone else to scour the papers for news. Stage actors have a tendency not to appear in the mainstream press, or even the tabloids. And Jon has a job to do, after all.

The obituary is a four-line blurb in a local theater weekly. Jon rereads it until every word is burned onto his retinas ( _...what police have ruled a suicide,_ it says, the dry official language baring not a hint of _he was using anger to protect himself, and it must have stopped working_ or _he was always the smartest guy in the room_ or _if this had gone just a little differently, he would have changed the world_ ).

Then he closes his eyes and lets the fabric of history unravel farther than he ever has before.

 

*

 

It costs Jon his life's savings to convince the high schooler next door to make the call. But it's twenty-seven years (to the day, even) before 9/11, and nobody's going to buy a bomb threat by a twelve-year-old.

It's worth it. EA 212 never gets off the ground.

(Going through puberty again is a bit of a horror show, but the rest of it is actually kind of entertaining. The schoolwork is a whole lot easier, the bullying just seems laughable, and he picks up a bit of a reputation as a psychic when he calls every move in Watergate before it breaks.)

 

*

 

Jon waits in the parking lot until he sees his son come out of the building, still in costume but minus the pizza box. That's a good sign.

(He ends up with different kids every time. A different wife this time, too; the other woman he loves won't really exist for another ten years, and anyway he skipped the shoddy movie career altogether, so he hasn't even met her younger self. His oldest, Martin, has a flair for acting; Jon can't imagine where he got it from.)

"How did it go?" he asks, as Martin approaches the car.

"Charmed the pants off of him. Are you going to stop being mysterious and tell me what this is all about?"

"Maybe. Details first, okay?"

Martin talks as Jon drives. He showed up at the office with the pizza, exactly as planned; the manager was confused, but when told that it had already been paid for, accepted it. Yes, there were a couple of photos on the desk. No, no family. No, nothing particularly eccentric, except maybe a neat little swirly paperweight. Yes, Martin had struck up a conversation; sure, the guy was friendly.

"Was he...content, do you think?"

"How should I know, Dad? He wasn't, like, grinning every thirty seconds, but he didn't seem morbidly depressed either. Just average, I guess. Look, why are we stalking him? Is he your ex-boyfriend or something?"

"No, no, nothing like that," says Jon, only half listening. "Just this guy I used to know."

 

*

 

He doesn't get any sleep that night, or the next. He sits on the porch swing and watches the first grey light in the east.

Stephen walks up the steps and leans against the railing.

Okay, so Jon has finally drifted off after all.

"Why did you do it, Jon?" asks Stephen— _his_ Stephen, in spite of the disapproving expression on the normally cheerful face.

Jon shrugs. "Had to do something."

"You didn't need to do a thing. I was happy."

"You were dead!"

"I'm dead now!" Stephen waves vaguely in what might be the direction of the office building. "That's not me. We don't have anything in common except a few childhood memories. And he's _not_ happy. You don't want to admit it, but you know it's true."

Jon hangs his head.

"I had a good life, Jon," says Stephen, gentle but firm. "You had no right to take that away."

"I know, I know." He runs his hands through his hair, thinner and greyer than it's ever been. "I'm sorry. Should I try it again, or...?"

"I think you've done enough already."

"Yeah." Jon sighs. "You're probably..."

Before he can finish, he feels the web of existence begin to unravel.

"I'm not doing it on purpose!" he exclaims, trying frantically to pull it back together.

"You're not doing it at all." Stephen is smiling now, that wide ebullient smile that Jon used to know so well. "Did you think you were the only one?"

 

*

 

He hasn't seen this office for years.

No, that can't be right. This is where he works. He's been here all day, for crying out loud.

For a moment or two Jon just stares, taking in the big corkboard tacked with sketches, the balled-up scripts in the trash can, the Rubik's cube he's been using as a makeshift paperweight ever since Neil DeGrasse Tyson went and solved it. Then he wakes up his laptop and checks the clock.

It's the date he will never forget, no matter how many lifetimes go by.

And he still has four minutes.

 

*

 

Heads turn as he races by. Snatches of conversation follow him down the street ( _hey, didn't that look like—?_ ).

He ignores them, the way he ignores the pounding on his feet and the burning in his lungs.

Stephen is on the sidewalk outside the studio when Jon spots him ( _would recognize him anywhere_ ). And there, a few blocks up but closing fast, is the car described ad nauseam in the police report.

Jon tries to shout a warning, but he doesn't have the breath.

At last Stephen hears the footsteps. That's good. Looks up. Sees Jon and stares, eyes wide with confusion. That's not good. He hasn't noticed the car.

He's still on the curb, but that isn't stopping the driver, who's heading straight for him.

Too late, much too late, Stephen glances back—

—the car's almost on top of him now—

—and Jon collides with him, throwing him out of the way.

There's a deafening _crumph_ as metal smashes into the brick wall.


End file.
